


one single glowing spot

by vexedcer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Slash, Wakes & Funerals, listen. im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 12:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexedcer/pseuds/vexedcer
Summary: He’s never been the most delicate of people - hammers are not the most delicate of weapons, not like the spellwork or knives his sibling favoured. You swing, and you either hit your target, or you miss.His fingers feel giant, doing this. The wood is forgiving in it’s flexible nature but he breaks another with just one careless flick of his finger. He sighs.





	one single glowing spot

**Author's Note:**

> listen. im sorry. its depressing. ive been thinking abt this idea for a few days and it originally had more loki in it but. that didn't work. also loki is nb and uses neutral terms and pronouns, and thor is a respectful supportive brother.
> 
> thank u to alex who read over it, you wonderful dude. thank u for putting up with my bullshit.

The night is so utterly silent that he hears Bruce coming from a while away. 

He’s not sure  _ how _ he knows that it’s Bruce. He hasn’t spent enough time with Bruce to learn his step yet, his rhythm, what keeps him walking and what he walks towards. He thinks he will in time, because something in him can’t bare the thought of truly being separate from him now.

Maybe it’s that he knows Bruce  _ would _ be the one to come looking for him. After everything, that makes sense. Many things don’t make sense right now, but that does, in it’s own somewhat scattered indecipherable way. The others’ have retreated to the room’s the Queen has provided - young and scared but undoubtedly someone Thor trusts from the look in her eyes and the fire in her heart - to mourn in private. 

The palace, while beautiful, felt stifling. It gleams with a clean sort of presence, and Thor just feels dirty. There’s still blood and sweat and ash and guilt clinging to him, under and over his clothes, and washing it away will take more than a shower.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, he just sits down next to Thor a few feet back from the bank and lets the sun set overhead. Thor doesn’t look up from his craft, weaving small bendy branches into a little bowl shape. Admittedly, it looks crude, and he knows that Loki would have ridiculed him for all the twigs he broke in the process. He’s never been the most delicate of people - hammers are not the most delicate of weapons, not like the spellwork or knives his sibling favoured. You swing, and you either hit your target, or you miss.

His fingers feel giant, doing this. The wood is forgiving in it’s flexible nature but he breaks another with just one careless flick of his finger. He sighs.

“Do you want me to -?” Bruce says, gesturing vaguely towards the little boat, voice hushed. He takes it gently from Thor’s hands and starts weaving the rest of the branches in, making it secure and strong.

His hands are steady. Which makes sense - Bruce is a scientist, and in the early days of the Avengers he saw some of the experiments that Tony and Bruce did. They’re two very distinctly different people, but they both have hands that move with a sureness, a caution that shows a respect for their own craft. Thor’s own hands sit limply in his lap, useless and still as he watches Bruce work.

The whole world feels empty - this country is a beautiful and bustling civilisation, he’s been told sometime between the battle and now, but it feels half-full. Not even a humming insert or a purring beast. The air feels thick with grief, like the entire universe is mourning with them. It might be.

“There,” Bruce mumbles, mostly to himself when the last stick in the pile is slotted into the woven side of the boat. He looks up at Thor. “What do we do next?”

_ We,  _ Thor thinks for a second,  _ we, we, we. _

“Flowers,” he says finally. His voice feels raspy from disuse. “And some dried leaves.” Bruce nods and hands him back the little boat, before standing and walking back into the thicket. Thor cradles it carefully, determined to not let his big hands crush it. It’s a vessel of grief, and also one of support from one of the only people he feels like he can even look in the eye anymore. He listens to Bruce’s steps, tries to figure out the fall and lift, when he’s aimless and when he’s found something. 

He comes back with an armful of flowers, pale and almost colourless in the twilight that has fallen in the time they’ve been here. They’re not the flowers typically used in a funeral boat, but a funeral boat usually has a body to carry, and is more than just a woven bowl of sticks. Thor doesn’t care for the details right now.

The dried leaves go on top of the flowers in the little well of the boat. They’re coloured like death, brittle in his hands as he places them gently. He does everything gently, because everything feels brittle. 

Bruce stands back when he kneels by the stream and places it into the water. It’s alight when he flicks a spark on it, dancing blue along his arm, his palm, his finger before catching on the dry debris. They stand until the boat, one single glowing spot, floats to a bend and disappears.

Bruce’s hand is in his. He’s not sure who took who, but it’s the most real thing he’s felt since his hands pushed Stormbreaker further into Thanos’ gut, since the  _ snap _ , since the Captain’s beloved called to him in confusion as he turned to dust. “The last funeral I went to was my mother’s. Jane was there,” he adds, almost nonsensically. 

It feels like a lifetime since that moment, surrounded by his people, next to Jane who he loved but didn’t know, the lit orbs rising into the air to mirror his mother’s soul heading towards Valhalla. Now he stands with his friend on a world he loves dearly but ultimately has failed while a blanket of grief suffocates the very land. 

He angles his body more into Bruce’s and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Bruce’s  arms sling around his back, and they stand there, pressed together in the dark. He turns his face into Bruce’s hair. It smells clean - not like battle, no blood or sweat or ash. Maybe some guilt but mostly just a soothing nameless smell. 

“Thank you for being here,” he whispers into the greying locks. Thor is trembling. His eye is blurring.

Bruce tightens his grip around his waist. “Where else would I be?”

**Author's Note:**

> [my main blog](http://vexedcer.tumblr.com/) [my writing blog](http://reckless-compassion.tumblr.com/) \- come beat the shit out of me for writing this lmao


End file.
